• October 17th, 1998.
    Today is the day. No more waiting around and playing these games, good ol’ Will is going to see his last day…    * * *
    William heard the sounds of rusted metal hinges, squeaking in the timing of a heartbeat. He turned to face the noise and grinned as his co-worker headed around the corner, his old fashioned lunch box bobbing carelessly in his left hand. The air was still chilly and the sun barely peaked over the horizon, sending faint orange rays of warmth over the fields of harvested hay. The colours surrounding them reminded each farmhand why they kept this job.
    “Six thirty on the dime.” William explained, checking his greasy watch on his wrist. “We’ll let the cattle out in a few, but the chickens can wait this morning. Eggs need collecting.”
    Bret nodded as he limped closer to his companion. He placed his lunchbox up on the shelf inside the shed, then headed towards the chicken coop.
    * * *
    I don’t mind the fact that he’s perfect in her eyes, I don’t mind that she tries so hard… but he loves her back…
    That was his mistake. Dear God, I dare you to give him the holy power to speak of her the way he does to my face again today…
    I dare you…    * * *
    Bret began his work in silence, the chickens weren’t awake yet. The yellow pail sat empty by the old wooden door he came through, as it always did, right to it being the feed rack he installed with William just last week, the old one still hanging on rusted chains near the center of the coop.
    He picked up the pail and quietly manoeuvred the eggs from underneath the hens. Quiet clicks from the egg being placed on top of the other stirred some of the chickens, but none made enough noise to awaken the coop.
    Being careful not to be too loud, Bret was too focused, heightening his sense of surprise. This meant that when William decided to assist him the squeaking door hinges scared him, causing his hand to jolt as he grabbed an egg. He squeezed it so hard that the egg broke in his palm, sending a shiver down his spine as the yolk slid and trickled. The hen too, jumped and began squawking.
    “Sorry mate,” he apologized, offering a rag from his pocket. “It happens. I remember when I was a young lad being taught how to gather eggs…”
    Do I really look like I want to hear a story right now? Especially one that has to do with your damned childhood? Bret snarled in his thoughts. He pretended he was actually saying this to his collaborator.
    “Don’t worry about it. No big deal.” Is what he managed to say instead. Wiping the yolk off his hand as he watched the chickens scatter, he ignored every word that followed his story.
    “…and it cracked right in my hand! Can you believe it? The yolk was still whole and it went and slid right down my coat sleeve…”
    Shut up, Bill. I would rather take cattle duty than stand here listening to your sickening voice for another moment! Bret couldn’t help but bear a frown on his face.
    “Perhaps you could feed the hens for me, Bill?” His horrid thoughts were diminished, but he was still desperate to rid of his co-worker. William cocked up an eyebrow, mouth still open from being in mid-sentence.
    “Of course, no problem.” He stalked across the coop, avoiding the worried chickens to the best of his ability. A bucket of pre-poured feed sat by the second door, this one painted red like the metal walls. He turned back and said “It’s the least I could do for all you’ve helped me with…”
    Bret didn’t even pay attention to what he was just told, the chickens were screeching and clucking too loud to even attempt to hear. However, even if he could hear, he wouldn’t listen anyway. There were eggs that still needed collecting, and so he continued his job, the sound of corn and grains pouring from the bucket into the trough soothing him, drowning out everything else that was going on.
    A loud bang of the wooden door rattled the walls and swallowed the moment of silence Bret had. The farmhands craned their necks to see Roy Blake standing in the open doorway, a stack of buttered toast in his chubby hand. He looked furious, his face redder and puffier than it usually was.
    “Mister Sheardon, what’s going on in here?” he bellowed, his voice scaring the hens all the more. “These hens sound more alarmed than a child witnessing a restricted film for the first time!”
    Bret lowered his eyes to the ground. He figured if he snapped now, he could kill anyone looking him in the eye. No, he thought. Not now, it’s too soon, someone would be bound to notice…
    “Hold your horses Roy,” William tried to joke. He didn’t seem too amused after he saw the glint in his boss’ eye. “It was an honest mistake, one hen woke and alarmed the others. It couldn’t be helped…”
    “I don’t give a rat’s a** who did it or how it happened just shut them up!” The farmer slammed the heavy wooden door behind him, the hinges screaming at them like a tea kettle set at a boil. The chickens were still in a rut, leaving the two men struggling to hear their boss call out one last demand. “And fix that God forsaken door!”
    William gently set down the bucket of feed amongst the mob of rampaging hens. “Perhaps it I let them out they won’t be as frightened. Hopefully they settle soon…” He opened the metal door and freed the noisy flock, leaving just the two of them again.
    “Got all the eggs.” Bret reported. He too placed his bucket on the ground, making a soft rattling noise as the simultaneous clicking of individual eggs bumped into each other. “I suppose I could oil the door hinges.”
    William nodded. “You seem very determined to work today. What’s the occasion?” He laughed whole heartedly.
    Bret didn’t bother answering him, he just continued his path out the wooden door back to the shed. That kid seems awful attached to me today. What’s his problem? He wondered. The shed door, he could see from where he stood, was locked again. As his eyes wandered over slightly, he could see Roy waddling up the stairs on the porch. The boards moaned and cracked under his immense weight.
    The dirty old p***k locked the door! Bret complained, his dark eyes fixed on his boss’ buttery fingers sliding off the knob, watching him become frustrated with the chunk of metal. Not yet Sheardon… not quite yet…
    He decided to focus his frustration on forcing the lock open. The clambering, sticky fingers grasped onto the bottom of the lock, fumbling with the numbers.
    “Seventy four…” he whispered. The tip of his thumb made a sick sucking sound every time it pressed, rolled, and released the numbers. “Sixty seven.” The lock clicked as the numbers continued to roll, then the head finally broke free from the rest of the brass lock. Bret removed it and flung the door open, replacing the lock on the vacant chunk of metal plate. There, on the shelf below his lunch box, was a filthy rag, random screws, nails, and bolts, a lot of dust, an empty paint can, and an oil can half filled. He snatched it up, and regretfully looked at the chicken coop.
    You can hold back… only a while longer, just hang in there. As he continued to encourage himself, he ran into William, waiting for him at the coop door. He looked like he was inspecting the hinges for a higher purpose than to fix them. It seemed longing. Clearly the hinges weren’t the only thing on his mind.
    “Oh, don’t let me get in your way,” William seemed to have just snapped out of some sort of trance. “I was just thinking…”
    Bret avoided feeding the fire by pretending he didn’t care. This, however, wasn’t true. Bret knew exactly what he was thinking about, and he cared about it a lot. Avoiding him wasn’t about to stop William from informing him on what was on his mind.
    “I just can’t help myself anymore Bret,” he was off in the distance again for a moment. “She’s really something else…”
    Bret began pumping oil from the can onto the bottom hinge. A burst of rage began to pulse with his heartbeat and poke at a part of his brain. Contain yourself… Have control…
    Squatting on the dirty floor, he tried to hide his hands. If William wasn’t so busy in his dream world he would have noticed his company digging his cracked, yellow nails into his sweaty palms.
    “She’s just so beautiful, so natural. And her eyes…” he sighed, distancing himself from reality. “Oh, her eyes. When I look into them…”
    Bret got up and began oiling the hinge William was staring at for quite some time. His eyes were wide, a spark brought life to the green pool of colour. The tapping at Bret’s brain remained steady and constant, until finally it chipped off part of the shell known as self-control, and Bret tinged red.
    Let’s see you look into her eyes the same way ever again, Bill… He snickered quietly to himself at his own thoughts. Squeezing the handle as hard as he could, Bret over oiled the hinge, sending the thick black liquid dripping down the door’s side, and some off onto William’s forehead and right eyebrow.
    He let out a cry of surprise and began frantically rubbing at his eye. He hadn’t got any in his eyes to begin with, but by rubbing it he buried some of the oil deep into the socket. William’s eyes bulged and quickly went bloodshot. The pain pulsed through his eyes and into his brain. He began to panic.
    “Bret! Help me! Oh, it burns!” William covered his eye with one hand and began frantically waving the other. “Please! I need to flush it out, help me Bret!”
    “I’m so sorry!” Bret lied. “I should have been paying more attention. You need help, and fast!” He guided William to the house as quickly as possible, and assisted him in flushing out the oil from his burning, pulsing, bloodshot eye.